Noire
by Allarice
Summary: Beautiful and ambitious, Blair takes the dazzling court of King Charles by storm. But when she attracts the attention of the enigmatic ruler himself, illusions appear everywhere, intrigue lurks in shadows, and secrets – especially the sort Blair may be hiding – become deadly. B&C, historical.
1. Prologue

**********Prologue**

_"If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared."_  
― Niccolò Machiavelli, _ The Prince_

**-~o~-**

_England 1515_

EVERYTHING WAS ORANGE. Bright, blazing orange, like the fabric of her mother's favorite dress, threaded with strands of glittering gold.

Except the comparison was all wrong.

There was no heat in the cool silk of Mama's dress. Here, it was blistering, scorching and melting everything it touched. It fascinated her. Soothed her. The overwhelming physical sensations meant she could not think. When a flickering yellow light grew too close, the pale skin of her shoulder blossomed into pink and purple splotches; ones, she thought absently, that resembled barely-opened flowers. She felt no pain. Instead, she leaned closer. Close enough that she could see the sticky, crimson stained floor through the comforting smog of smoke.

A faint taste of rust pervaded her dry mouth. It took a moment to realize it was blood from biting down so hard to prevent the screams.

And with that realization, the world flew back into motion.

Searing pain, along the length of her right side. Watching timber and cloth alike consumed by hungry flames, her heart pounded harder, terror flooding her veins. She backed away and tripped on something soft. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up. With the fear came a sense of clarity. _The window._

Determination welled within her. Blair _did not lose_. Not to other children simpering around her, not to married ladies with smiles of poisoned honey, and not even to an ever-growing sea of flame, disintegrating all it touched into powdered black ashes.

She did not look down at what she had stumbled over. There was no need to. The sight of the knife flashing through the air, the blood spurting out – gallons and gallons of it, it seemed; she'd never known that a person possessed so much – immortalized itself in her memory. One glassy eye further shut than the other, as if winking. A strange thought, when its owner had never winked in life. Full lips parted slightly in eternal surprise.

The flames drew closer.

_The window_. That's where she _should _go, straight ahead. The door burned, as did the walls, eaten with a blinding speed. She veered left sharply instead. Swiping the smog away, she knelt and scrabbled at the floor. Wet velvet. Something like bile rose to her mouth, but she continued, sightlessly groping at the doublet of the dead man. She was not sorry he was dead. The feeling was more like vindication. Still, the corpse – about to burn – it frightened her, an omen of what she had been so close to being and would very likely still become. Her hands closed around vellum.

Swallowing convulsively, she blinked away the stinging tears – tears which she attributed to the smoke – and unrolled the scroll, her arms shaking so badly it took a moment to make out the words written in bold, crisp script.

_Neutralize all threats._

_C._

She froze. Her limbs seemed dead, unmoving.

And then it was as if something in her broke, and rage poured out, boiling hatred simmering in her veins.

Slender fingers, so skilled at the harpsichord, fumbled at the window latch. She could barely breathe. Her throat ached, and for a few precious seconds, she couldn't continue, doubling over in hacking coughs. One flick of the thumb and she would be there.

When they had all forgotten her – well, she could not forget them. Especially _C._

The window swung open, rocking on its hinges. Fresh air slammed into her. It felt so _good_, cool and crisp and clean as it filled her lungs. She inhaled deeply. Refused to look down the two stories she knew was below.

She jumped.

* * *

A/N: Noire is set in Tudor-era England. The lives of main characters will be _very_ loosely based on the lives of members of the court of King Henry VIII. This fic will probably be heavier on political intrigue than most B/C historicals, but then again, it _is _Chuck and Blair. Chapters post-prologue will average about 3,000 words.

Review!

-Alle


	2. I: Debut

**********I. Debut  
**

_"Appear as you may wish to be."_  
― Niccolò Machiavelli, _ The Prince_

**-~o~-**

_London 1526_

"WHAT A CRUSH," Lord Marcus Beaton remarked caustically. His gaze travelled decidedly down the length of his aristocratic nose before alighting on the elegantly-attired revelers wandering about in mincing, sometimes bow-legged steps. "I would have thought Somerset would at least be more selective about his guest list."

Nathaniel Archibald, third Earl of Vanderbilt, grunted and shrugged his broad shoulders in noncommittal response without sparing the sumptuous London residence of the Duke of Somerset even a fleeting glance.

"Forget the goddamn company. There's no whiskey."

"Of course. The dearth of alcohol is a cardinal sin before all else," Marcus agreed blandly, brown eyes lighting on an attractive lady in green across the room. He grinned in response to her salacious wink before turning back to his friend with a faint frown. "You've been hitting the drinks a bit hard lately. Heiress hunting not going well?"

"Shut up, Beaton." Irritation edged into Nate's voice. It was common knowledge that the Vanderbilts were utterly impoverished. The estates had fallen into ruin and could no longer support the lifestyle of even the most humble member of court. As a result, the earl needed a wife. A _rich_ wife.

Unfortunately, the only woman Nate wanted was definitely _not _in possession of a fortune.

"Come on, my man. There must be _some _chit here to suit the refined tastes of the Earl of Vanderbilt. That one, for example. Buckley's daughter."

Nate followed his friend's gaze to a mousy-haired young woman standing the corner. She was quietly watching the festivities: couples, illuminated by sunlight spilling in from the windows, laughed and waltzed on the marble floor. Average, perhaps leaning towards attractive, but she had nothing on Serena.

Then again, no one had anything on Serena.

"That one in pink isn't precisely deformed, either," Beaton pointed out, shifting Nate's attention to an animated blonde, all petite exuberance and flushed cheeks even from this distance, smiling so wide at her dance partner and stepping so energetically that Nate felt exhausted just looking at her. She also appeared entirely too young, if Nate's assessment of her slim figure and rosy skin rang true. "Heard she's bringing an estate to whichever man catches her."

He downed another glass of ale.

"Which lecher catches her, you mean. She can't be more than fourteen."

Beaton shrugged. "If you're so dead set against robbing the cradle, there's always Lady Sparks."

Nate failed to hide a grimace, calloused fingers tightening on the neck of the bottle. "I don't compete with Chuck for women," he said shortly.

Marcus snorted, watching the voluptuous redhead in question push her way through the crowd. Her creamy bosom, more exposed than not by the filmy lace bordering the collar of her low-cut gown, drew more than a few male stares. "No need for concern in that department. I heard His Majesty dropped her last night. Pity she's an ex-mistress, but at least that woman knows how to please a man."

"Regardless, I'd like it if my wife's assets weren't available for all of London to see. Which puts her out of the running."

Marcus grinned and clapped him on the back. "Well, can't have everything. At least you'll know she won't be stiff in the bedroom – "

Nate frowned at his friend's sudden pause. "What?"

"Who the hell is _she_?"

Marcus's lean, hawk-like features, usually so expressive of disinterested ennui, were frozen in something that might have resembled reverence had it been anyone else. His sharp gaze fixated on a spot by the grand stairway, directly under the chandelier.

Nate looked.

And there "_she_" was.

It was strange, but the first thing he noticed was her dress. He'd never been one to notice fashion. Then again, he had never seen such deep, dark crimson, and never had he seen a woman wear it with such grace. It suited her the way pastels never would have. Rich mahogany tresses tumbled free of a coiffure unhidden by a headdress, contrasting magnificently with skin so pale and creamy it could have been porcelain. Beautiful in a cold _don't-touch-me_ sort of way.

So different from golden hair and easy, entrancing laughter – but that, Nate reminded himself fiercely, was entirely out of the question.

When the mysterious brunette's full lips curved into a small, inviting smile, his feet moved forward of their own volition. The crowd parted for him, as they should. Broke or not, he was still Nate Archibald, bearer of one of the most prestigious titles in England and the king's favorite.

He pressed a light kiss to the back of her glove, wishing his lips were unobstructed by the thin layer of red satin. "My lady."

"Sir." Her voice was firm and clear, like bells ringing at chapel, as she gracefully extricated her hand. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"We haven't," Nate straightened and grinned boyishly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners in the way that had ensnared countless impressionable young ladies in times past. He bowed over his arm with a flourish. "The Earl of Vanderbilt, at your service."

She arched a dark brow, lips quirking in what could be either teasing or mockery. "Do you think a title impresses me?"

Taken aback, Nate nearly stumbled. He'd expected her to melt, or at least warm to his charm; instead, she retained a sense of calm reserve, almost like a challenge. He blurted the first answer that came to mind: "No."

"Good." Her smile widened until it was all sincerity. He wondered what test he had passed. "I will be seeing you again, my lord. Count on it."

And with a twirl of crimson skirts, she glided away.

* * *

SHE SLIPPED INTO an empty corner of the ballroom, heart pounding faster than normal due to a combination of nerves and triumph. One look into Nathaniel Archibald's sky-blue eyes, and she had known he was hooked. It was only a matter of time. She'd waited this long – she could wait a bit longer.

"Blair, what are you doing brooding all alone in a corner?" a light, airy tone pulled her out of her reverie. Tensing slightly, she glanced up to meet the inquiring gaze of an exquisite blonde dressed in cerulean silk and relaxed.

"Brooding," Blair said dryly, swirling the tiny sip of champagne she'd taken around with her tongue. Too flat, slightly sour. Who knew that Somerset was lacking not only hair but funds?

"Don't be like that. Elusive is one thing, but cutting is yet another. Men don't like putting their fragile egos at risk."

"Thank you, Serena, for that pearl of wisdom."

Lady Serena van der Woodsen giggled and tilted her head, the movement causing her beaded gown to rustle and glimmer in the sweeping sunlight of late afternoon. "There, that's the trademark Garrell wit. Oh, I'm so glad you decided to leave Calais! Not that Calais isn't very nice, of course, but here in England you're with _me_."

Maintaining an apathetic expression, Blair twirled her glass by the stem, allowing the light to bounce off crystal in tiny stars. "You could have stayed in France."

"I wish, but I couldn't. My family is counting on me to make a good match. Not all of us have the luxury of having _le duc de Bourgogne _as our adopted fathers." This last sentence was said somewhat wistfully, but, true to form, Serena immediately brightened. "Come, Blair, let me introduce you to some gentlemen!"

Sighing in fond exasperation, Blair allowed her childhood friend to pull her about the ballroom. Serena had first come to Calais at the age of thirteen. When her fiancé, some obscure middle-aged English diplomat, passed away from the pox only a week into his official tenure, Serena was left alone in a foreign country and estranged from her impoverished, albeit noble, family that did not want to support her financially. Roman, however, allowed her to stay, and for the next five years, Blair and Serena had been as thick as thieves.

For old times' sake, Blair supposed she could make nice with some of Serena's love-struck fops.

"_This _is Lord Marcus Beaton," Serena announced grandly, halting gracefully in front of a lean young man of middling height. "Lord Beaton, Lady Blair Garrell of Burgundy."

"Pleasure," Blair said demurely, curtseying low. She fixed her eyes on the gleaming marble tiles in the classic maiden's repose as she straightened. Beaton, on the other hand, examined her with lively interest.

"Likewise, Lady Blair. You are newly arrived from France?"

"Very recently. Only two days ago, in fact. I appreciate the opportunity to visit England – Calais has its own charm, but it is very different from here."

"Yes, well, Lady Serena might disagree. She talks about her time in Calais – and with you – without end. I've been dying to meet the elusive Blair Garrell for years." Leaning forward, Beaton dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is it true that you once set the rose bushes of the Summer Garden aflame because they were yellow rather than the pink they were supposed to be?"

_So Serena had been telling stories._ Shooting her friend a meaningful glance, Blair masked her displeasure and smiled sweetly, allowing a faint blush to touch her cheeks.

"No, my lord, I merely pruned them a bit because they were growing wild. How was I to know the ensuing smoke might be taken the wrong way?"

Beaton stared at her for a moment, then burst into genuine laughter. His eyes held a different sort of appraisal as they raked over her again, lingering just a moment too long on her décolletage.

"How indeed. I can see why Vanderbilt appeared so taken with you."

Blair felt rather than saw Serena stiffen ever so slightly beside her. So her friend was taken with the blonde, blue-eyed earl; the earl, if his reaction to Blair had been any indication, was not quite as decided. Still, it would not do to alienate her only sure ally.

"You flatter me, but I only met Lord Archibald this afternoon. He's a charmer by nature. There is nothing between us," Blair demurred, offering a flirtatious flutter of the lashes for Beaton's benefit. She heard an almost imperceptible exhalation. _Completely smitten, then_. _Fool. _"Now, it was wonderful meeting you, Lord Beaton, but I really must – "

"And who might this be, Beaton?"

The slightly hoarse tones caught her attention – they were those of one raised to hold authority, and entirely too nonchalantly interested in their inane conversation for Blair's liking. For the first time at this event, one that she'd dismissed as perfunctory but necessary, something like unease prickled along Blair's spine.

The speaker was a tall, solidly-built man no younger than thirty-five, dressed in what Blair's well-trained eye recognized as the finest silks and brocades. Imported, likely, from the East – and with the new tariffs the king had imposed to keep the royal treasury afloat, that meant either obscene wealth or a great amount of connections. And whereas Marcus Beaton struck her as a typical clever young man, popular among his peers and perhaps possessing an overly keen interest in women and drink, this man's deep, slightly raspy voice bespoke experience and command.

Catching her gaze, shrewd hazel eyes returned her subtle assessment openly as thin lips twisted into a small, knowing smile.

A spike of irrational fear rose to the surface. _He knows – but that's impossible. _She shoved it down, stiffening her spine as Beaton hastily introduced her: "Your Grace, Lady Blair Garrell of Burgundy. Lady Blair, His Grace the Duke of York."

_Jack Bass_. She automatically sank into another curtsey, inches deeper than the one she'd offered Beaton, her mind flying a mile a minute. Jack Bass, England's very own paragon of statecraft. From what she remembered from her studies, the younger brother of the late Bartholomew I. Bass possessed a reputation for being both ruthless and manipulative. He had also come out of the bloody court battles for the succession relatively unscathed, something that indicated no small amount of skill. _What did he want with her?_

It did not bode well that he'd sought her out so early in the game.

"You are as beautiful as the rumors say, Lady Blair," the duke murmured, that piercing stare never leaving hers, even as he bent into a shallow bow. She wasn't sure why, but she had the distinct feeling he was mocking her. "How is your father?"

"Well, thank you," she replied politely. "Father's very busy, nowadays, working with the royal advisors. Uncle – I mean, His Majesty – has been pushing the agricultural reforms quite hard."

His razor-sharp smile widened. He recognized her slip of her tongue for what it was: a reminder that Lady Blair Garrell of Burgundy was neither unprotected nor inconsequential. Perhaps she was overreacting. She'd only just met the man, after all. But if there was one thing Blair had learned over the years, it was that it was better to be safe than sorry.

"My regards. And yourself? I understand you're visiting old friends for the entire season, Lady Blair." Those eyes seemed to dart contemptuously over Serena's classically perfect features for the briefest of moments. "Is London meeting your expectations?"

Translation: _You are here for a ridiculous amount of time for a 'visit,' and you _will_ tell me why. _Blair shrugged. Or, at least, if Blair Garrell shrugged, she would have; rather, she did her equivalent, a gracefully tilt of her head to the right. "Very much so. It's a lovely place, but I'm afraid I'm not as well acquainted with it as I'd like, yet."

"Let me show you the sights," Beaton offered. "There will be a play – "

The duke cut him off. "Hampton Court. Have you seen the palace, my dear?"

"She has not," Serena spoke for her, voice surprisingly firm. The blonde matched Jack Bass with a cool, level look. Blair watched with fascination – Serena had more skeletons in her closet than Blair had realized. First Nate Archibald, now this tension with the Duke of York? That disdain, mingled with something of a threat, flittered yet again across Jack Bass's handsome face.

"Well, then," the duke stated, addressing his words directly to Blair, "you must. It's an architectural feat, you know. The pride of England. His Majesty, in fact, is holding a fete there in a week – you must attend."

Blair stood momentarily stunned in spite of herself. An invitation to the royal ball. A chance to meet the king. Wasn't that precisely what she wanted?

That was precisely the problem: it was _too_ convenient. Men like Jack Bass never did anything without an ulterior motive. Still, she couldn't turn down the King of England. The smile she pasted over her delicate features felt stiff and foreign. "Thank you, your grace. I'd be honored to attend."

The duke's expression, had it been worn by a lesser man, could have only been called a smirk. "I look forward to seeing you there, Lady Garrell. Excuse me, but Lord Beaton and I have some business to discuss with Lord Holt."

Blair's eyes remained fixed on his back until he was out of sight. Long, elegant fingers gripped Serena's arm hard, perfectly maintained nails digging into the fine blue silk of Serena's sleeve.

"Why does he hate you?"

Taken aback by the brunette's uncharacteristic bluntness, Serena allowed her bottom lip to fall slightly. "I'm sure he doesn't – "

"Forget the court-speech." Blair twisted Serena around to face her, glittering dark eyes meeting vibrant blue. "I saw the way he addressed you. You have an enemy in the most powerful man in England, with the exception of His Royal Majesty himself, S. Unless, of course, discourtesy is a permanent state of being for the duke."

"It is when it comes to me." Serena's rose-colored lips curled, an unusual expression of contempt breaking across her sunny demeanor. "Why does it matter so much to you?"

Pale skin blanched further. Sometimes, Blair wanted to shake some sense into her best friend, shake her until those perfect white teeth rattled. This was one of those times. It was with effort so strong that it was almost tangible, sweeping through her veins like molten lead, that she dropped her anger for the moment and returned to her mantra: _control_. Her grip on Serena's arm loosened.

"Why do you think? I'm worried about you, S.," she muttered, settling for a half-truth. Or a quarter-truth. Serena knew her too well to be lied to straight out, but this – Blair pushed her sincerity through the way an open dam directed the river, subtly but deliberately. She was rewarded with Serena's relaxing posture, the way the golden-haired woman sighed and took her hand.

"Blair – when I came back – God, it was so _different_."

Recovering from being thrown off her game by the enigma that was the Duke of York, Blair was careful to modulate her curiosity this time, shaping her voice until it was gentle and encouraging. "Different, how?"

"You know as well as I do the facts, the circumstances," Serena said slowly, fiddling with a simple sapphire ring on her right hand. "The succession – all those barons rose up to challenge the crown prince – the fighting – but how do I explain? You had to _be _there."

Something twanged inside Blair, an old familiarity like the taste of rust on her tongue that she still, on some nights, rinsed out over and over again with icy water. Yes, she supposed it _was_ one of those times you had to bethere for. The uncertainty. The danger. The mounting number of bodies waiting to be disposed of at the hill. The knowledge that one wrong word, one mistaken friend, and you would be next. And the _burning_.

"It was getting to be too much, about a season after the death of the king. Mother sent me away then." Her friend's voice was little above a whisper. "The official reason was to get married. The unofficial reason was to keep me safe."

"So you stayed at Calais."

"I did. We had such good times there. But when the prince finally solidified his hold on power – I _had _to come back, B." Serena's voice had taken on a pleading quality, and they both knew she wasn't only communicating the reason for the antagonism between her and Jack Bass anymore. "I had to make sure Mother was going to be alright."

_But you left me_.

Blair smiled again, comfortingly. "Of course."

"No." Serena shook her head, almost frantically. "You don't understand. I _had _to. Mother – she was involved with – "

But Blair had stopped listening. A faint prickling feeling danced over the graceful curve of her back. They were being watched. And Blair would stake almost anything that it was by a pair of probing amber orbs.

"Later."

As she stepped away from her stunned friend, Blair couldn't shake off the sense this wouldn't be the only complication in her plans.

* * *

A/N: So, I'm finally back from summer travels, and got around to penning this. Very excited about this fic - I've been meaning to do another dark romance for a while now, and I _love_ reading political intrigue, so I thought I'd try my hand at both at once. Anyway, please **review **- I can't tell you how much your comments, whether positive or not, mean to me. Thanks for reading!

-Alle


	3. II: Encounter

**II. Encounter  
**

_"__It will be found that some things which seem virtuous, if followed, lead to one's ruin, and some others which appear vices result in one's greater security and well-being_."  
― Niccolò Machiavelli, _ The Prince_

**-~o~-**

NATE STOPPED IN front of the familiar ivory residence, something lumping in his throat as he remembered the last time he was here. A fleeting embrace, a desperate kiss, and a short, pained conversation where they'd agreed on the futility of anything between them.

But he digressed.

Stepping out of the carriage, he made his way up the gilded steps, once opulent but now worn down by time and tear, and waited. He was greeted by a heavyset woman of at least middling age, with dark hair tied into an unfussy bun and scrutinizing eyes that seemed to penetrate deep under his tanned skin.

"You are Lord Archibald." Her voice was quiet, but no less firm for its volume. "My lady expects you. The parlor, please."

_Go inside Serena's house while attempting to romance another? _The very thought was laughable. Nate found himself releasing a chuckle that, albeit polite, could not mask its underlying bitterness.

"I'd prefer to wait here. Thank you."

"Hmph."

"Dorota!" a feminine voice called from the stairs. "The letters, where are they? You _know _how important they are – " The speaker stopped short, doe-like eyes widening as they caught sight of Nate.

He felt a faint relief, as she came into the sunlight, that her beauty was not merely the exaggeration of a desperate imagination. She had dressed dramatically today in a dazzlingly beaded deep plum gown of pure silk that set off creamy alabaster skin to perfection. Caught up in admiring her rather low-cut neckline, he failed to notice those almond shaped eyes narrowing momentarily in displeasure.

"This is rather unexpected, my lord," she remarked. By the time his gaze managed to travel up to her face, he only saw a disarming half-smile on those lush red lips.

He smiled back, dimples lighting at their most boyishly charming. "I couldn't wait to see you."

"Unconventional," Blair murmured, ignoring the disapproving expression her maid wore as she glided toward him, linking her arm with his. She stretched upward to whisper in his ear, her cool breath sending Nate's blood rushing downward. "But I do admire a man who goes for what he wants."

"You don't mind that I called without warning?"

"I was surprised, I admit. In France, gentlemen do not often come to ladies' homes unannounced." Her lilting words carried just a trace of an accent, rolling lightly over her consonants. "However, I find your presence quite…delightful. May I inquire to the purpose of this visit?"

"Marcus told me you haven't seen a London play, yet. If you're willing, there is a showing of _Gl'ingannati_ by our finest troupe today – and I have use of the topmost box."

She paused. Spreading her hands, she examined her nails – elegant, although scandalously bare in the presence of a man who was not a relative – in leisurely consideration before sliding on matching gloves. The slow donning of the garments, the gentle rustling of the silk as it slid almost soundlessly over the smooth canvas of her bare skin, made Nate's mouth go dry with his baser instincts.

_Can't have Serena, but Blair Garrell and her fortune make a fine replacement_. He winced at the cynical thought, shoving down another wave of guilt at his mercenary considerations. He _had_ to save the title. He had no choice. He was, after all, approaching the one thing that all aristocrats dreaded above all else: bankruptcy.

"Fine," she said finally after a moment of lengthy consideration. He couldn't tell if it had been feigned as a display of coyness or genuine thought, but either way, Nate found himself release a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"After you."

Stepping over the threshold of the tired white building, she climbed into the brocaded navy carriage emblazoned with the golden Vanderbilt crest. The luxury suited her delicate beauty. In fact, she appeared so at home within it that Nate couldn't help but be reminded, yet again, of the wealth of the Duke of Burgundy.

The drive was short but comfortable. Blair's witticisms made him laugh, and, on the not-so-rare occasions they sailed over his head, he was able to smile fondly anyway. It was the longest time he hadn't thought of Serena for a while – he managed to forget her entirely, until when helping Blair out of the carriage, he couldn't help but notice how tiny she appeared compared to his blonde Aphrodite. But that was only once.

_Maybe_, he thought, surprising even himself, _maybe it's time to move on._

They walked into the theater, avoiding the plebian masses, which Nate ignored except for a faint tightening of his jaw at the stench of unwashed bodies and tightly packed crowds. He didn't see his companion's inscrutable eyes linger ever-so-slightly on two brown-haired children, clothed in gray rags, scrambling on the floor for the rotten food the crowd had brought in case of a bad showing, her delicate mouth thinning into a flat line.

"I usually use the royal box," Nate explained proudly, oblivious to the turn in Blair's mood. "Chuck's almost _never _there, and we've been friends since forever."

"Chuck?" Blair repeated curiously as they ascended the stone staircase, holding her long skirts above the floor so that she almost appeared to have wings.

"His Majesty. It's a childhood nickname. We grew up together, when I fostered in King Bartholomew's Court. Don't try to call him that, though. The last person who did without express permission…well, heads rolled."

She arched a winged brow. "I wasn't about to."

As they neared that topmost box, gloriously gilded and with a clear birds-eye view of the stage, high above the mere mortals below, something that sounded almost like a moan drifted towards Blair, nearly indistinguishable due to the thick wooden walls. Blair frowned; hadn't the earl indicated that the box was empty and for their use alone? Lord Archibald, she saw, wore that tell-tale quirk of his brows that she'd already recognized as belying irritation. With a decisive kick from her companion, the polished oak door flew open.

Blair's heart thudded.

In the sharp relief of the candlelight that illuminated the room, as the thick purple curtains had been shut to block out prying eyes, two figures lay on a silk-lined recliners, although "lay" was perhaps the wrong word for two bodies moving in such shuddering, ecstatic sync. Although rationally she knew a proper lady would look away, Blair couldn't tear her gaze from the defined, sinuous muscles between a set of broad shoulders and slim hips. She dared to peek lower, half thankful, half inexplicably disappointed to find fabric of the finest linen composing the low-cut waistline of a pair of breeches. Unfortunately, the same comfort could not be afforded in the opposite direction, as the man's – David, in her mind, like Michelangelo's most famous work – face was hidden by a pair of very bare breasts.

Blair's cheeks burned, and this time, she did avert her glance.

"_Chuck_," gasped a throaty, feminine voice. The woman's eyes were closed, her soft pink lips open in something resembling ecstasy, dark blonde curls flying askew over russet pillows embroidered with golden thread. "Fuck, _please_…"

Her partner, still partially hidden from view by a certain piece of female anatomy, rose slightly, corded muscles rippling as he took the tip of a dusky nipple into his mouth.

"Oh!"

The spell was broken. It took Blair a moment to realize that the raspy, alien sound reverberating around the room was _hers_.

The woman's eyes snapped open. As she caught sight of Blair and Lord Archibald, her usually tanned complexion became increasingly crimson. Frantically, she pulled at the folds of her satin dress to hide her dishabille, as if covering herself physically would also conceal the act from memory.

The man, in contrast, barely reacted. His turn was slow, lazy, almost, as if others walked in on him performing acts of sexual – Blair flushed again, just thinking of it – _depravity_ every day, and when Blair caught sight of his face, she found she could imagine that, even if discovery was uncommon, the scene itself was not. His features were hard, angular, devastatingly handsome in a sharply aristocratic way, miles removed from Lord Archibald's friendly, almost cherub-like comeliness. His nose was slightly too strong, his jaw too square, for that true perfection, but the trade-off was worth it. In the place of beauty, he gained an intoxicating air of iron-willed command. When his inscrutable eyes – so dark that it seemed she was staring into a deep pool, one utterly impossible to surface from once descended into – raked over Blair in such a leisurely fashion, it was as if _she _was the one half-naked and caught in coitus.

For an instant, trapped in his gaze and unable, for some reason, to break free, she felt…heated. Different. _Vulnerable._

_Weak_, came a little voice inside her.

With that scathing inner taunt, the instant passed. Drawing on strength born of trial by fire, Blair straightened her spine and lifted her chin in a haughty tilt as she met that keen yet disdainful stare with a glacial one of her own.

A corner of a fine mouth, the design of which could almost be termed cruel, curled upward in amusement. "Well, Nathaniel," the dark-haired man greeted the earl sardonically, his caustic tone at odds with the smooth velvet of his baritone, "what do we have here?"

The familiarity with which the earl's name was uttered sent a jolt of shock, and then alarm, through Blair. An old friend, using the room as if he owned it; the box was the topmost seat, the place to be seen by all as well as to see, lavishly decorated in the colors of the –

_Fate could not be this cruel._

Lord Archibald bent into the deepest of bows, reserved only for those of the highest stations. "Your pardon, Your Majesty."

Except that it could.

But of all things, at this meeting that she'd been preparing for during half her life – she had to walk in on the king fully, passionately engaged in – in _intercourse _with his mistress. She felt an absurd laugh bubbling in her throat even as tears gathered in her eyes and her cheeks blazed as if on fire.

As if he could read her thoughts, those thin, shapely, _royal_ lips curved further, until they carried a distinct shade of mockery.

"Pardon granted. I repeat, who's the chit?"

Embarrassment gave way to burning indignation. He _dared _– he dismissed _her_, showed his contempt of _her_, although it was _he _who was behaving so inappropriately, so against the dictates of polite society?

"The _chit_," Blair answered frigidly, speaking over Lord Archibald's attempt at an introduction, "is Lady Blair of Burgundy." She sank into a curtsey, several degrees too shallow. "Your Majesty."

At that, there was only silence.

"Well," the king said finally, and his smile – if still jeering – appeared ever-so-slightly more genuine than before, "so little Psyche doesn't merely have voyeuristic eyes, she also has the tongue of a shrew. What is the niece of my most-favored French cousin doing in England, Lady Blair?"

Blair smiled back, tightly, her normally full lips forming a line so thin it reminded one of a razor blade. "Only visiting childhood friends, Sire."

"Lady Blair's staying with Serena, Chuck," Lord Archibald stepped in, trying to ease the tension. He cast an uncomfortable glance at the blonde woman still huddled on the recliner, frantically trying to lace her petticoat. "Sorry, again. I didn't realize that you would be seeing the play today. We'll be on our way out – "

"Stay."

The command was impossible to ignore. Lord Archibald halted mid-step.

The king ignored the earl's uncertainty, sliding into a slightly wrinkled white shirt that had been discarded on top of the opposite seats only a moment before. Standing, now fully clothed – Blair tore her eyes away from the sculpted planes of his chest, the flat stomach, the lean build, the tantalizing trickle of hair that stemmed from his navel down to _below _– he efficiently tightened his mistress's bodice, as if he'd undressed and dressed women a million times prior. Draping an arm around her slim shoulders, he faced the two once again, expression inscrutable. To her horror, Blair felt the first stirrings of fear.

"After all, we're all friendshere," the king drawled, sending a shiver down Blair's back. "Now, Nathaniel, since you so eagerly decided to make use of the royal station, and since you brought such a _charming_ companion, we may as well enjoy the delights of _Gl'ingannati _together. Jenny doesn't mind, does she?"

The blonde – Jenny – blinked. "No," she said in a small voice.

"How convenient. Please, sit." The king's smile dazzled in its brilliance, but his words, however politely phrased (if even that), were not a request.

Embarrassment and irritation had subsided enough for Blair's clarity of mind to return. It would do no good to defy him, not this soon. _The game_, she reminded herself. Swallowing her anger, she made to take her place next to the earl, who appeared as puzzled as she was inside.

"Here, my lady," the king added, gesturing beside himself. Hiding a grimace, she acquiesced, heart pounding abnormally fast. They were too close, for either propriety's sake or for Blair's comfort; at this distance, she could detect a clean, yet spicy musk, reminiscent of pine needles and earthy woods.

Suddenly feeling too hot, Blair resolved to watch the theatre in mutinous silence. The king rose. Stepping towards the purple shades, he pulled them open, leaning over the balcony to view his gathered people. Blair, for her part, felt far too many eyes on herself.

_This was why he wanted her to stay_. The epiphany hit without force, resembling more a candle being lit. The placement of the box, at the top of the theater – which did not, contrary to expectations, afford the absolute best view of the stage – was so that the grandeur of its occupants could be admired from below. Or at least seen.

What could have been a resurgence of the Hundred Years War with France had been crushed not so long ago. As the niece of King Francis, natural-born or no, she was a prominent figure, a symbol of peace, her presence a sign the English monarch was capable of ceasing the hostilities of an unpopular war with minimal losses to England. And, in the case anything went wrong, he had now ensured that everyone knew of her stay here, her supposed closeness to the king. A few words regarding her meddling here and there in England's internal politics would go a long way. She – and France – would be an easier scapegoat.

King Charles was no fool, in spite of his preference for the carnal pleasures. She would do well to remember that.

Returning to his seat, his arm brushed against hers. Tingles shot through the thin fabric of their respective garments. Blair inhaled a deep breath, still strangely warm.

"That was well played," she said quietly.

He turned towards her, a faint smirk upon his proud features. "I'm glad you approve."

"Why did you single me out for the honor of being in such close proximity of a royal personage, if not to seek my approval?" Blair asked, voice dry.

Strong brows lifted in part-surprise, part – was that delight? He gave her a languid, yet probing glance, lingering just a second too long on her décolletage for it to be accidental. She flushed, to his continuing gratification.

"You looked so sour. I thought the wonders of my company might remedy that."

Blair nearly choked.

"The _wonders _of your company?"

A slow, stunning grin. Blair's heart stopped beating.

"Of course," he murmured. As if that wasn't enough, he paused, leaning in close enough that his breath grazed the top of her ear, sending unfamiliar molten sensations to pool under Blair's now florid skin. "Why wouldn't it be wonderful? I'm Chuck Bass."

* * *

A/N:

For those of you curious, _Bourgogne _and Burgundy are one and the same - one is the original French, and the other is the Anglicized title. The estate of Burgundy was traditionally bequeathed to the younger brother of the King; it's a royal duchy.

Anyway, thanks so much to everyone who reviewed/favorited/followed! I'm doing my best to respond to anyone who leaves a review with an account, but if I didn't - I can't express how much feedback means to me. Thanks for reading, and again, please **review**!

-Alle


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